Home
by ImogenByNight
Summary: It's late October, Hell is still open for business, and they haven't heard a thing from Kevin since April. Castiel, either-not that Dean hasn't been trying to do something about that. He hasn't prayed this much since Purgatory.
1. Chapter 1

It's late October, Hell is still open for business, and they haven't heard a thing from Kevin since April.

Castiel, either-not that Dean hasn't been trying to do something about that.

He hasn't prayed this much since Purgatory.

Sometime in July, he'd tried calling the old cell he'd given Castiel years ago.

He hadn't expected Castiel to answer-in all likelihood the phone was laying in thick mud somewhere at the bottom of the reservoir in Kansas-but, in the self destructive manner that he approached most of his problems,he'd sat on his desk and scrolled through his contacts to highlight Castiel's name anyway.

At that point, nearly four months had passed since he'd seen Castiel.

With one palm pressed against the desk's edge, he'd tapped the cell against his chin, telling himself this was _pointless, pointless, pointless_, though he still had every intention of calling.

It was a good thirty seconds before he worked up the nerve to press dial.

Not that he'd ever admit it, even to himself, but he just wanted to hear that familiar voice asking why he needed to state his name. He'd been counting on it; at least one little trace of Castiel that was still there. Still in reach.

Instead, he'd just heard a tinny tri-tone and a robotic voice telling him the number was out of service, and he'd slammed the phone down so hard that the screen had shattered.

_"_God_damn_it!"

He'd stared down at the phone, at the spider web-cracks that spread out on the glass, and wanted to kick himself for getting his hopes up at all.

In the library, a chair scraped back against the floor as Sam got to his feet, footsteps cautiously approaching down the hall.

"Dean?"

Abruptly, Dean had shoved his door closed before he could try to ask him if he was okay, and sank back onto his bed, feeling worse than he had before he'd made the _stupid, stupid, stupid_ decision to call.

He heard Sam stop outside, heard the shuffle of feet as his brother tried to decide whether or not to say anything, and presently his voice came muffled through the door.

"Are you okay?"

Dean looked up at the ceiling, ignoring the question. It wasn't the first time Sam had tried to talk to him about it, and it sure as hell wouldn't be the last, but Dean had no idea how to even articulate what was wrong.

Despite the numerous promises they had both made to keep no more secrets, tell no more lies, he kept on insisting that Sam was just projecting his touchy-feely bullshit onto him.

And it wasn't a lie. Not really.

It was an omission, at best, and not even much of one. Sam knew, and he knew that Dean knew he knew.

For all the knowing that was going around, neither of them had a clue what do do about it.

Because, yeah, he missed Castiel, but he knew it was more than that. Deeper than that. And if he couldn't even manage to name the reason in his own head, how in the hell was he supposed to say it out loud, let alone actually deal with it?

Dean heard the dull thud of Sam's foot kicking at the baseboard, a rhythmless tap-tap-tap that betrayed how worried he was.

"It's nearly eight," Sam said through the door, a little louder, "I'm gonna go pick up a pizza, okay?"

He'd cleared his throat, eyes still fixed on the broken phone.

"Fine."

Sam left, then, the sound of him making his way back up the hall and the jingle of keys echoing through the bunker until the front door slammed shut, leaving Dean alone in silence.

Just his thoughts and the weight in his gut to keep him company.

He knew he should just answer Sam. Because what it all boiled down to was that no, he wasn't okay, not by a long shot. He knew he should tell his brother that, at least, but he couldn't. He just couldn't.

And he _hated _it.

He hated that he couldn't get the words out, that he couldn't pin them down in his own head even if his life depended on it.

He hated the fact that whenever he heard the flap of wings his heart clenched in his chest like a fist, then sank when he saw that it was only a bird.

Mostly, he hated Castiel for leaving. For making him feel like this in the first place.

He still does, a little.

But with all that has happened between that night at Lucifer's crypt and now, that anger is getting harder to hold on to.

As much as he'd like to deny it, these days he's not so much angry as hurting.

At any rate, Dean figures they have bigger problems to deal with than the fact that he feels like crap.

Sam's sickness, in particular.

Since Kevin disappeared, along with the Demon tablet, Sam's condition has only worsened. The wet, hacking cough that forces him awake through the night has been slowly but steadily growing louder, more frequent, and while it started out as an occasional thing, easy to downplay or ignore, now it was an odd night if Dean didn't wake at 4am to the sound of Sam staggering into the bathroom to empty his lungs.

So Dean has been reading. There's not much else he can do, at this point in time-they're fresh out of knowledgeable allies, and with no desire to give Crowley an opportunity to kill them, summoning him for information is out of the question.

The bunker's library makes Bobby's collection look like the magazine stand in a Doctor's office, but after months of reading his way through the shelves, Dean still has no idea how to help Sam.

It's a little after midnight when he gets up from his seat, bleary-eyed and exhausted, and stretches his arms over his head to crack his neck.  
_  
Six hours wasted_, he thinks, slamming the leather-bound book closed and adding it to the ever-growing pile of unhelpful texts on the far end of the table. Even so, he refuses to give up. He knows that there must be something in one of these books that will help them. There must be because there has to be.

He makes his way over to the turntable by the door and lifts the needle to render Ella Fitzgerald silent, before turning to look over the room. His eyes trail over the walls, the bookshelves, the doorway into the bathroom. They settle beside the yellowed lamp, unfocused, glazed.

He catches himself doing this more and more lately; just standing, staring, thinking of nothing and everything all at once.

As though he is hoping to find some answer in the bathroom tile or the wood grain of the research table.

After a few minutes, he lets out a breath and rubs a hand over his throat, offers up the quiet nightly prayer;

"Cas, if you can hear me... we could really use you down here. Door's always open."

There's no answer-there never is-but he still waits for one, gives it a moment before he walks down the hall, heading toward his room.

Sam is, from what Dean can tell, having a rare and much needed good night.

There has been no coughing for hours, and as he passes Sam's room he pushes the door open a little, just to be sure he's still there. Sam is asleep, propped up against three pillows, his mouth slightly open.

From here, Dean can hear the rattle of his breath.

Months ago, he convinced Sam to visit a doctor, just in case it was a coincidence-some strain of the flu that had happened upon him at the same time that he'd started the trials-but the doctor had found nothing.

All symptoms, no cause.

She'd wanted him to stay for further tests, but Sam had declined.

It had been enough proof that his condition was entirely supernatural in origin, and he'd wanted to get back to researching and hunting down Kevin so they could slam Hell's gates and get it over with.

That was in August.

Now, as the temperature has dropped with the onset of fall, his breathing is more labored than ever.

His eyelids flicker frantically as he dreams, and Dean is put in mind of a time when they were very young, sharing a motel bed out of necessity, when in a fever dream Sam had thrown out a punch at some imagined attacker and punched a sleeping Dean directly in the sternum.

His mouth quirks up the the memory; enough time has passed for the pain of being winded to have faded to the background to make way for the look on Sam's face when he woke up and realized what he'd done.

The lamp at Sam's bedside is still on, and under one hand on top of his sheets, an aged copy of Mary Shelley's _The Last Man_ lays open and forgotten. Dean steps lightly into the room, slipping the book out from under his hand and putting it on the bedside table before turning out the light and shutting the door.

He'll be surprised if Sam makes it through the whole night without waking, but he walks down the hall as quietly as he can anyway, not wanting him to wake sooner than he has to.

His own room is at the far end, and by the time he gets there his tiredness is beginning to overtake him. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and yawns as he walks through his door-then stops dead in his tracks.

Standing by the desk, one hand resting on the back of the chair as he looks up with interest up at the weapons adorning the walls, is Castiel.

His back is turned, and his head tilts to one side as he notices the angel blade-his own, forced into Dean's hands in the crypt after he'd healed him, just in case Naomi got her claws back in-on display amongst the knives and guns above the bed.

Frozen in place in the doorway, Dean is overcome with equal parts relief that Cas has finally returned, anger that he left in the first place, and fear that he isn't real. That this is some kind of trick, or worse, that he is being controlled again. That he has been sent here to kill him.

For a moment, Dean doesn't even breathe. He just stares, fists clenched at his sides like he thinks he's going to have to throw a punch. He has the feeling that even if he wanted to move, he couldn't.

The sight of Castiel has turned his feet to lead, even his hands feel heavy. It's as though his body suddenly doesn't fit him right; as though he is simultaneously too big and too small to exist within it. His heart thunders, and if it's in protest or in rapture, he can't tell the difference.

Dark stains mark the fabric of Castiel's coat; dirt and scuffs and a tiny but unmistakable patch of dried blood on the right cuff.

Though he still hasn't moved, Castiel seems to sense him there. He starts talking before he's turned, his voice bouncing off the walls, cutting through the silence.

"Hello, Dean,"he says, and the sound spreads warm like whisky through Dean's chest, "Don't worry, I'm still... myself."

He looks tired, shadows beneath his eyes like he hasn't slept in days-though the thought is absurd, considering-but his gaze still bores into Dean, right down to the core of him, finally shaking loose that coiled-up tension that had rendered him immobile.

Dean swallows audibly and takes a step into the room, looking for any sign that this might not be real. He digs the sharp edge of his ring finger into the palm of his hand. The sharp sting of pain tells him that it's not a dream, at least.

_Could still be a djinn_, _though_, he thinks.

From his place by the desk, Castiel looks at him sadly, and it immediately fuels the lingering spark of anger in Dean's chest, brings it roaring back to life as easy as breathing.

"Where the hell have you been?"

The look of regret that sweeps over Castiel's face almost makes Dean feel guilty, but with months of unanswered prayers between them, he is finding it a little difficult to move past the anger now that it's returned.

"I had to hide the tablet."

"And, what, you couldn't take five minutes to let me know you were alive?"

"I am sorry, Dean. Truly. You know I would have returned sooner if I could."

"Right."

Castiel looks back up at him, a knot in his brow.

"What?"

"You're always saying how you'd like to stick around. I guess it's my own stupid fault that I keep believing you."

"Dean, I-"

"Do I sound like I'm done?"

Deans voice is getting louder as he levels Castiel with a glare, and he pauses to close his door, dropping his voice so as not to wake Sam.

"You know it's been six months, right?" he asks, raising his eyebrows, his mouth pulling down at the edges as he speaks, voice short, clipped, "Last time I saw you, you nearly _killed _me, Cas."

With widened eyes, Castiel steps forward, voice pleading as he tries to explain.

"I wasn't myself. Dean, I would never have-"

"I know. I know that, Cas, but I... I told you..." Dean squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, sighing through clenched teeth, "and you just friggin' left. Again."

He lets out a shallow, humorless laugh and shakes his head, gaze now fixed on the floor in front of him.

"And I'm left here thinkin', maybe that Naomi bitch got to him again. Maybe he's hurt, or, or... or trapped, or _dead_. Or, you know what? Maybe he finally did it."

He still doesn't lift his eyes, just stares hard at the linoleum, and when he speaks again his voice is so quiet, so lost that Castiel barely hears him.

"Maybe he killed himself like he said he would."

Dean knows he shouldn't have mentioned it. It was a low blow, to take Castiel's pain and twist it around onto himself, but what he's feeling doesn't come from any place rational, and _hell_, he thinks, _all is fair in love and war_.

And that's what it is, he knows. He _has _known.

The feeling he's been trying not to name, because it hurts too much. But now that he's thought it, it's done. No turning back. He might not have to address it out loud, but it's there in his mind and in his chest, and there's no switching it off.

He looks at Castiel, at the guilt, the melancholy in his eyes, and swallows around the lump in his throat.

The air in the room feels dense, now.

It's as though the atmosphere itself is in distress, pressing cold and desperate against the walls, and Dean grits his teeth, trying to let the anger come back. Anger he can handle, but this heart-aching hurt that seems to devour him from within is too much. Much too much.

"Dean-"

"No. Don't. Don't try to..." he trails off, crossing his arms over his chest as he finally looks up, "Do you have any idea what it was like, Cas? To pray to you every day and get _nothing_?"

"Dean, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, well maybe sorry ain't gonna cut it this time."

The words are forced, and anyone could see that he didn't mean it, but still Castiel stares at him, eyes wide, throat constricting, because it's what he expects. He backs away to sit down at the end of Dean's bed, suddenly unable to look Dean in the eye.

Dean sighs, rubbing the heel of his hand over his forehead, his eyes, and leans against the side of his desk.

"I just... I'm tired, Cas. Tired of being helpless. Sam's sick, Kevin's missing, you've been AWOL... Everything just keeps piling up and I... I can't do it. I'm just so damn tired, and I need-"

"I know. And I wish I could help you, Dean," Castiel still doesn't look up, his hands twitching uneasily against the comforter, "I know you need me to fix Sam, to find Kevin, but I can't. I'm weakened; whatever Naomi did to me, it left me-"

"You're an idiot."

Pushing himself back to standing, Dean looks down at Castiel, incredulous.

"What?"

"You," he says, "You're an idiot."

"In what way?"

Dean moves to sit beside him, the bed creaking a little under the extra weight, and weighs his words before he speaks.

"You seriously think after everything that's happened that I only need you here to fix things for me?"

"Don't you?"

"Dammit, Cas, I know I can be an asshole sometimes but... I told you, man. I need _you_, not your mojo. I need you here because when you're not..."

He turned away, looking at his hands, the floor, anywhere but Castiel's face, speaking quietly.

"God, it sucks when you're not."

"I didn't think you'd want me here."

"Are you _kidding _me? How many times do I have to say it? What aren't you getting about this?"

Dean stares him down. Castiel looks back, miserably.

"Regardless. I'm no good to you, Dean."

"I don't care! I don't care how much of a goddamn mess you are, Cas. You're family and I want you to stay. I want you to _want _to stay."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why do you want me here? I've betrayed you, horribly. More than once."

"Well like it or not, I've forgiven you. Sam's forgiven you. You're the only one who hasn't."

"I can't," he shakes his head, looking down at his hands, folded on his lap, "I don't deserve to be here. I shouldn't be here."

A little alarm in the back of Dean's head tells him this is point when Castiel usually flies away. He'll decide he needs to do penance or fight or _something_, and disappear, out of reach and silent. So Dean racks his brain, searching for something to say to stop him before he has a chance to go. Because he has to. As pathetic as it makes him feel, he just can't take Castiel disappearing on him any more.

"If you really believe that," he asks, "then why did you come?"

Castiel looks taken aback by the question, his mouth falling open, eyes narrowing as he twists the edge of his coat between restless fingers.

"I-"

"Cas,"Dean leans forward to catch his eye, "if you can't help me, and you don't need _my _help, then there's no reason for you to have come. But here you are. So why?"

Something like confusion flickers over Castiel's features, there and gone in the briefest moment as he analyzes his reasoning, and he looks back up at Dean with certainty.

"Because I missed you."

He says it with such conviction, and a slight smile as though he hadn't quite realized until this moment that the feeling had even been there. Something seizes up in Deans chest, warm and almost painful as he looks at Castiel.

"Well, same here."

Castiel lets out a breath, and he looks so broken that Dean can't help but pull him into a hug, his arms around his shoulders. At first, Castiel doesn't hug back-his hands sit limp at his sides like in Purgatory-and Dean huffs out an exasperated laugh by his ear.

"You know, it's less awkward if you hug back, Cas."

"Oh"

Tentatively, Castiel wraps his arms around Dean's waist, and Dean hugs him tighter.

"I'm sorry, Dean."

"No more apologies," he replies, Castiel's hair tickling against his cheek, "you're home now."

And as Castiel's hands press warm and firm against his back, Dean realizes that for the first time in months, he feels like he is, too.


	2. Chapter 2

The hug has been going on for far longer than he'd usually allow, and though they are in a seriously uncomfortable position-sitting on the edge of a slowly sinking foam mattress, twisted awkwardly at the hip-Dean has no intention of letting go any time soon.

It's been months, after all.

He figures Castiel has no idea about how long a hug is supposed to last, and with his chin pressing down into the hollow of Castiel's shoulder, arms radiating warmth around his back, Dean thinks this might be the first time he's ever been glad that Castiel has no concept of social norms.

It's not at all like the hug in Purgatory.

Castiel is hugging him back, for one.

There's no lingering stench of decay, no fear of impending attack; just warmth and safety and comfort.

To Dean's surprise, Castiel smells normal. Human. He's not sure what he was expecting—if he had been expecting anything at all—but if it he'd been inclined to speculate, he'd have thought breathing in Castiel would have been like being outside before a Texas thunderstorm, like oxygen charged and electric with waiting power.

Instead, he smells like soap and fabric softener and sweat, with just the faintest hint of Jimmy's aftershave lingering on the edges.

It's as though each time he unfurled his grace to heal or clean his clothing, he restored it back to the exact state he found it in five years ago, down to the leftover residue of cleaning products.

The idea of it is bizarre and absurd and so perfectly _Cas_, that Dean breathes it in, and smiles.

He squeezes him a little tighter, briefly, before finally, reluctantly, pulling away.

Now, at arms length, Castiel watches him carefully, a tiny crease between his eyebrows. The beginnings of a smile play at the edges of his lips, just barely visible, and Dean can't help but smile back. Embarrassed, he quickly looks down to focus on his hands.

"So," he says, because he figures he ought to say something, "what now?"

Castiel doesn't reply, and for a split second Dean worries that he has gone. When he looks back up, though, he is still there, frowning in thought.

"I don't know," he says finally.

"I mean is everything...?"

"The tablet is safe, for now."

Dean nods, deciding not to grill him over the tablet just yet; that can wait until tomorrow.

"Are you?" he asks instead, "safe, I mean."

"So long as I don't use my grace."

Dean's eyes return to the patch of dried blood on the trench-coat cuff, the graze on his knuckles, and Castiel notices. He raises his other hand to scratch at the stain.

It doesn't budge, and he sighs.

"The last time I flew, they were waiting for me."

"Who? Naomi?"

"No, she... she doesn't like to get her hands dirty. It was two others. Barachiel and Ion."

He scratches again at the cuff, absently, expression downcast. Dean wonders which of Castiel's brothers vessels had spilled that blood, and his chest aches.

"I didn't want to hurt them, but I... they tried to drag me back to her," Castiel's voice tightens, wavers as he speaks, "I couldn't go back."

He looks up, then, eyes boring into Dean's, and they are red-rimmed and wide. As if he is seeking forgiveness; as if he doesn't understand it's already been given.

"Not after what she made me do to you."

"Hey," Dean rests a hand on his shoulder, "you fought it, remember? I'm okay. _We're_ okay."

Looking away, Castiel hangs his head, ashamed. He doesn't speak for a while, and when he does, his voice is quiet.

"She made me practice—"

Castiel stops, the words not making it the whole way out of his mouth, and takes a breath before he tries again.

"She made me practice killing you, Dean. More than a thousand times. She made me do it over and over again until I could do it without hesitation. And then she sent me back to Earth."

"She made you do _what_?"

Dean's hand tenses on Castiel's shoulder, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat. Even with all the shady, messed up crap that Heaven had dealt them over the years, he never would have expected anything quite so cruel, so vicious.

Castiel stares at the ground, unwilling to look up, and swallows.

"If they had taken me back... if she made me do it again. I had to—" he shakes his head, his fists clenched on his lap, "—I _had to_ kill them."

There's pain in his voice, and Dean sees red, because Naomi forced Castiel's hand; made him kill his own brothers, again. As if he didn't already have enough blood on his hands. As if the past two years guilt wasn't enough.

_I should have killed that bitch when I had the chance_, he thinks.

"It's okay, Cas. You had to. I get it," he forces his hand to relax, pressing his palm against Castiel's arm before pulling it back, "but you're safe now, right? Nobody followed you here?"

Castiel nods, though his shoulders are still slumped, and gestures around the room.

"There are wards, built into the walls, the foundations of this place. If you hadn't told me the address in your prayers I wouldn't have been able to find it."

"So as long as you're here...?"

"I'm safe."

"Okay. That settles it, then."

"What?"

"Until we can figure out how to gank this Naomi bitch, you're staying."

For a long moment, Castiel just studies him, as though making sure that Dean has thought this through. His forehead crinkles, eyes narrow.

"You're _staying_, Cas," Dean repeats, firmer, then realizes how pushy it sounds, "I mean. If you want to. Obviously I can't make you, and I—"

Castiel's mouth quirks up on one side.

"I want to. I'm staying."

He stands, rubbing his hand over his throat, his eyes closing in relief.

"Okay. Good," he says, and his words come out like breathing, "Okay."

"Dean."

Looking down at Castiel, still seated on the edge of his bed, Dean raises his brow.

"Yeah?"

"You look tired."

He huffs out a laugh.

"When do I not?"

"You should sleep."

Castiel stands, looking around the room. His eyes settle on the chair in the corner, turned to face the bed, and his eyes widen, just barely, but Dean sees.

Rather than wait to see if Castiel comments, he walks to the door, pulling it open.

"Not yet. Come on," he tilts his head toward the hallway, "I'll give you the grand tour."

* * *

They start down in the firing range and work their way back up, Dean pushing open doors and pointing inside, telling Castiel all the things he's found in them.

He feels a little stupid doing it; Castiel is, after all, older than he can know. He's probably seen stars being created. Anything that Dean can show him is going to pale in comparison. But he wants to show him, anyway.

Mostly, he wants to see Castiel in each and every room, let him become a part of the space, inseparable from it in his memory. Just in case.

If anything happens, he wants to be able to walk into the war room and know that Castiel had sat at that table; that he had touched the records on the shelf; that he had breathed the stale air of the firing range, the hallway, the library.

It's a way for Dean to keep him, even if he eventually leaves.

There are more rooms than he and Sam have been able to look through yet, and as they make their way back up the hallway, heading toward the library, they reach the one that is so crammed full of esoteric paraphernalia that the door doesn't even open all the way. They haven't even tried with that room, yet.

It seemed like the junk room—the place the Men of Letters sent things they couldn't find a place for—and unlike every other meticulously tidy room in the bunker, it's a complete mess.

It's dusty inside, in the pleasant, quiet way of an old book store, and the single bulb on the wall is yellowed with age, its light dim and soft.

"There's powerful spellwork, here," Castiel says, looking with interest at the mountains of boxes that crowd the floor, reaching almost to the ceiling.

"Well, you're more than welcome to go through it," Dean replies, "saves me having to do it all."

Castiel reaches out to the nearest box, pulling the lid open to look inside at a tangled mass of silver thread; a tiny wooden idol; a collection of jars filled with seeds. He picks one up and shakes it, watching the little black specks bounce around within, glinting oily yellow-green in the light.

"I'd like that," he says.

"Tomorrow," Dean replies, and steps back out through the half-open door.

Castiel follows. As they pass Sam's bedroom, he stops, facing the door with a frown.

"He's sleeping," Dean says, quiet beside him, and Castiel pushes the door to open it slightly, silently.

Light from the hallway filters in, cutting a bright line through the shadow, right down the middle of Sam's face where he lays, still propped up against his pillows. His hair is plastered to his forehead; his ragged breath echoing in the quiet.

"How is he?" Castiel asks, though by the sound of his voice, Dean thinks he already knows.

"Awful, but the stubborn bastard still tells me he's fine."

Castiel turns to level Dean with a look, and Dean rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm the pot, he's the kettle, shut up."

"I wish I could do something for him," Castiel says, pulling the door closed again, "but it's beyond my abilities."

"We'll figure it out."

"We always do."

"Yeah," Dean says with a tired smile and continues up the hallway, "come on."

In the library, Castiel runs his hands over the weapons on display, the spines of books, and Dean watches as he moves to the table to pick up the book he had been reading. He flips through the pages, tracing over a sigil with his index finger, and looks around the room.

"This place suits you," he says, after a moment, and Dean flashes a lopsided grin.

"Yeah, it's not too shabby."

They head to the kitchen, next, and Dean flicks on the lights.

Walking into the middle of the room, he waves out one arm in a kingly gesture that is only made more absurd by the tone of his voice as he says, "Welcome to my domain."

Castiel's brow furrows, but there's a smile in his eyes as he takes in the sight before him.

Dean follows his eyeline, and he knows the kitchen looks lived in, comfortable. It is, really. He's been spending a lot of time here, making dinner for Sam.

A newspaper is folded open on the counter, but for once, instead of showing a story about a grisly death, the page announces a recipe for salted caramel pie. A bowl of fruit sits by the sink, piled high with apples and oranges for Sam, and there's his own mug, upside down and drying on the rack, all black with the yellow batman logo on the side; a surprise gift given to him by Charlie when she found out he'd been calling this place the batcave.

Castiel looks at all of it, head tilting unconsciously as his gaze reaches the magnetic whiteboard stuck to the otherwise bare fridge.

Scrawled across it in Dean's blocky handwriting is a note left for Sam;

_Gone to see Charlie, _  
didn't want to wake you up.  
There's lasagne in the fridge.  
Eat it or I'll make you.

Castiel's mouth lifts at the corners when he reads it, and Dean looks away, embarrassed for no good reason. All he knows is that every time Castiel smiles he feels like punching the air, and he worries that eventually the warmth in his chest is going to bust out and make him declare all manner of things he shouldn't.

Turning back to look at him, Castiel asks,"How long have you been living here?"

Dean shrugs, fiddling absently with a bottle of hot sauce on the counter.

"Eight or nine months. Give or take."

"It's home for you, now."

Dean feels a flutter in his chest, his throat, because though he'd been calling it that, it hadn't felt like it. Not really. Not until about an hour ago.

He doesn't say that, though.

"Yeah. I guess it is," he says, and, because he can feel this becoming a heart-warming moment and he doesn't think he can handle another one quite yet, he clears his throat and gestures toward Castiel's dirty trench coat, his grazed knuckles, "So, if you're not using your grace, you can't heal and stuff, right?"

"That's right."

"So will you need to eat? Sleep? All that?"

"I suppose so. I should be okay for a while though."

"Alright," Dean nods and walks back out of the room, flicking the light switch as he goes, "let's get you set up, then."


	3. Chapter 3

There are four bedrooms in the bunker, two on each side of the hallway with storerooms in-between, and when he and Sam had decided to set up a sort of permanent base here, they had chosen rooms at opposite ends, on opposite sides.

Sam's room is closest to the library; Dean's, the firing range.

Now, with Castiel beside him him, Dean stops at the end of the hall and drums his knuckles against his collarbone, chewing on the inside of his lip.

Both the empty rooms are pretty much the same, but he can't think of a single good, non-feelings-related reason why he should suggest Castiel take the one opposite his.

But he wants him to.

He wants him close.

Wants to be able to open his door in the middle of the night and see a sliver of light shining out underneath Castiel's door; wants to be able to cross the hall and knock, to sit with him and talk until the early hours of the morning without the risk of waking Sam.

He can't say any of that, though.

Giving up the possibility of coming up with something convincing, he turns to look at Castiel, waiting patiently at his side.

"So, it's your choice, Cas," he says, pointing at the two doors, "pick a room."

Castiel just looks at him with confusion.

"What for?"

"What do you mean what for? For your room."

"Why do I need a room?"

"For sleeping," Dean says, exasperated, and Castiel tilts his head, so he elaborates, "or... I don't know. For when you get sick of the sight of Sam and me and you just want some space to yourself for five minutes. For a place to keep your stuff. Or to do whatever angels do instead of jer-"

Dean cuts himself off, his face heating up as he tells himself to steer _very_ clear of that line of thought. He clears his throat.

"Just pick one."

Castiel glances briefly at the two doors, then points to the closest one; opposite Sam's room.

Irrational disappointment flares in Dean's chest, and he dutifully pushes it down, shoving the door open and flicking on the light.

The room is sparse—even more than Dean's—with nothing but a single military cot pushed up against the back wall and a chest of drawers by the door, and the single bulb stutters as it warms up.

Castiel steps inside and takes it all in, eyes roaming over every corner.

"The other room's a little bigger," Dean tells him, though he feels like an idiot for even saying it, "y'know. If you change your mind."

"No, this room is better positioned, I think," Castiel says, looking around.

Dean frowns at that, offended, and Castiel catches the look on his face before he can rearrange his features.

Resting his hand on the chest of drawers, he explains, "it's closer to the building's main entrance."

"Oh," Dean says, nodding, then stops and narrows his eyes, "Wait, why does that matter?"

"If someone were to break in, I'd be able to stop them before they got to you or Sam."

Dean huffs out a laugh.

"Nothing's getting in here, Cas. You said it yourself; place is so warded it's invisible."

"Still. I'd feel better here, I think. Just in case."

Castiel walks across the room and sits down on the edge of the cot, bounces a little as though testing the springs. He looks absurd, bouncing in his suit and coat.

"Thank you, Dean."

With a lopsided smile, Dean shrugs.

"S'nothing," he says, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed.

As Castiel reaches over to prod at the single pillow, Dean notices the blood-stained cuffs again.

"You want me to put that in the wash?"

"What?"

He points.

"You've got blood on your coat."

"Oh. I suppose."

"Alright. Just... wait here, okay?"

Castiel nods, and Dean heads to his room. He yawns, widely, and with a glance at his watch discovers that it is already after four in the morning. So much for his early night.

Carrying a couple of t-shirts and a pair of gray trackpants, he shuffles back up the hallway, ducking into the spare room for a blanket—though who knows if Castiel even _gets_ cold.

He pauses just before Castiel's door to dwell on how amazing it is that it's _Castiel's door_. That he's here, and he's staying, even if only for a while.

It's more than he's let himself hope for, and even with the potentially awkward fact that his feelings for the guy are a lot more complicated than he'd been able to admit to himself until tonight, he's happy.

He can't remember the last time he was this happy.

Composing himself so he won't have to explain the smile, he walks back in.

"Got you some stuff," he says, holding it up.

Castiel hasn't moved since he left, but now he stands and crosses the room to take the bundle from Dean's arms. Up close, Dean can see him looking at the dark circles under his eyes, and, self conscious, he takes a half-step back, scratching at his chin.

"You should get some sleep, Dean."

"Yeah. Prob—," he doesn't even get the whole word out without a yawn splitting it in two, "—probably."

"I'd like to take a look at that storage room tonight, if that's okay?"

"Sure thing."

Castiel places the pile of clothes and blanket down on the edge of his bed gingerly, as though they were breakable, precious artefacts.

"You remember where the bathroom is?" Dean asks, and Castiel nods, "okay. Just leave your coat and stuff there when you're done. I'll take care of them in the morning."

"Okay."

"Good."

Dean still doesn't leave, just watches as Castiel shuffles through the clothes to pick up a black t-shirt.

Part of him is still a little worried that it's all in his head, that any moment he's going to blink and it will all have been a dream, that he's fallen asleep at the table in the library and is currently sprawled out over his book, drooling onto the pages. He crosses his arms tight over his chest.

Castiel turns to look at him. He tilts his head.

"I'm not going anywhere, Dean," he says, as if he can read the specific worry from the lines around Dean's eyes, "not this time."

Dean just nods.

"You'll be alright?"

"Yes. Get some sleep."

"Yeah, yeah," he waves one hand, dismissive, stifling another yawn, "just knock if you need anything."

"You've already given me everything."

Castiel smiles at him, then, the softness spreading to his eyes, and Dean tries to ignore the way that look and those words set his pulse racing. He smiles back, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"Night, Cas."

Back in his room, he undresses and flicks off the light, stopping for a moment to lean his forehead against the cool door and just breathe.

He hears the clunk of pipes and the hiss of water in the bathroom down the hall, and closes his eyes. Tries not to imagine the scene unfolding in the shower right now, and fails, though the image in his head is less pornographic than he'd have expected his subconscious to present him with.

Instead, he's wondering if Castiel is going to wash his hair.

If the bubbles will get in his eyes; if he'll notice his reflection in the mirror and pull his dark hair straight up into one messy spike; if he'll sigh as the warm water soaks into his tense shoulders; if he'll write his name in the steam on the glass with a pruny index finger.

He feels a fast, dizzying thrum within his chest. Four-thirty in the morning or not, he doubts he'll be getting any sleep at all.

He's been struggling enough as it is, what with Sam's steadily worsening sickness and Hell still open for business, so with the keyed-up buzz of knowing Castiel is here, he can't imagine he'll be able to get his brain to shut up long enough to let sleep take him under.

Somehow, though, he's out as soon as he gets under the covers.


End file.
